


Boyfriend

by ohmarqueliot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, post-monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot/pseuds/ohmarqueliot
Summary: Quentin, Eliot and Margo attend a party. Eliot seems to know just about everyone, but meeting his exes isn't the part that bothers Quentin. Post-Monster arc.





	Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> This started with a fragment of a conversation in my head, and somehow turned into 6.7k words. I hope this still comes across the way I meant it to!

Fiddling with the top button of his shirt and wondering whether he should undo it or not, Quentin glanced sideways at Eliot. “I still don’t know why we have to go to this thing,” he grumbled quietly.

Eliot grimaced and shrugged unapologetically, but it was Margo who answered. She was walking a few steps ahead of them but had heard his complaint despite him trying to keep his voice low. “Quit your whinging, Coldwater,” she said without turning to look at him. “It’s always good to make connections.”

Their portal had opened a little further away from the club that was hosting the mixer that they were heading to, but Quentin didn’t mind the walk. In fact, it was the opposite – a casual night-time stroll was more his thing that the party that Eliot and Margo were dragging him to. Margo had made a sharp protest that the heels she was wearing weren’t the walking kind (despite the fact that she was the one who had made the portal), but then had strode off at a fast pace that defied her complaint.

“I don’t even know why they invited me,” Quentin said as they walked. “I’m just another Brakebills student. It’s not like I’m a king anymore.”

“Yeah, but only because you haven’t bothered to come back to Fillory so Bambi can crown you,” Eliot pointed out, slinging his arm around his shoulders. The night wasn’t cold, but Eliot’s warmth was always welcome, and Quentin smiled up at him.

“Are you sure you can still do that?” he asked, turning to look at the back of Margo’s head.

She finally turned to look at them over her shoulder, slowing her pace slightly until she walked on his other side. “I can do whatever the hell I damn well please,” she said smugly, hooking her arm through his. “Which is why the first thing I did when we got back to Fillory was crown El king again, and made Fen a queen. She fucking earned that crown while we were gone.”

So he’d heard. Margo and Eliot had returned to Fillory once they’d defeated the Monster and gotten their memories and magic back, but he’d stayed behind to sort things out here while they did so. He was kind of curious to see how Fen had handled Fillory, and hadn’t been surprised to hear that she’d held her own despite Tick’s not-so-subtle power hungry tendencies.

He deflated a little when something she’d said clicked with him. He’d known Eliot had been crowned king, and if Margo was the High King… “You already have two kings,” he said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

Margo laughed. “I can have as many kings as I want. You know why? Because I’m the High fucking King, and there aren’t any psycho gods making the rules anymore. _I_ make the rules.” She squeezed his arm reassuringly, and he ducked his head, embarrassed that she saw through him and a little pleased that she wanted to comfort him. “You just gotta, you know, _come home_ so I can crown your dumb ass.”

Eliot snorted, and Quentin glanced at him. It had been a few months since the Monster had been defeated, but he was still hyper aware of every happy, carefree moment that Eliot had. It had been a hard time for everyone, but especially Eliot, and especially for the first few weeks that he’d been rid of the Monster’s influence. Things almost felt back to normal now… except for the times when Eliot woke in the night, terrified by the lack of control he’d had in a dream of a time when he’d had no control, or every now and then when he’d completely tune out of whatever was happening around him, too caught up in a memory of a time when he’d hunted his friends for sport.

But there were good times, too, and they came more often than not lately. Eliot’s arm was still around his shoulders and he leaned into the touch, wrapping his free arm around Eliot’s waist. They’d finally _, finally_ , had some time together. For two people who had spent more years alone together than they’d actually physically spent alive, the time apart that first the quest and then the memory wipe had demanded of them had been too much, but now there was nothing pulling them apart. “I’ve been busy,” he said, still looking at Eliot, who bit his lip, smiling at him knowingly.

He wasn’t the only one who knew what he meant. “You know you two can bang just as easily in Fillory as you can at Brakebills,” Margo said dryly, and Quentin felt his cheeks go hot.

“Aw, you made him blush,” Eliot teased, and Margo laughed in delight. He’d given up hoping to stop being the recipient of their torment a long time ago.

“And here I was, thinking you were corrupting him,” Margo said, reaching up to grab his chin playfully, laughing again when he pulled back out of her reach.

Eliot’s arm moved from his shoulders to hook around his neck. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said wickedly.

And that was about as much talk about his sex life that he was willing to handle for one night. “That’s it,” he said, pulling his arm free of Margo’s and squirming out from under Eliot’s. “I’m going home.”

Before he could take two steps Margo grabbed his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re here.”

Looking back, Quentin looked dubiously at the quiet, inconspicuous building that they’d stopped in front of. It looked like a pub, but only half the lights were on and not in an ambience sort of way. It looked they were closing for the night, and it was barely ten o’clock on a Friday. A middle-aged man with untidy hair leaned against the wall beside the door, smoking a cigarette and glowering at them. “Are you sure this is the right place?” he asked, looking pointedly to the club buzzing half a block down, half a dozen people milling out the front.

“I’m sure. And I’ll behave,” Margo added, reaching up to pat his cheek, then grinning when he shook his head at her wordlessly. They both knew her better than that. Slipping her hand into his back pocket, she took the invitation and headed over to the man behind the door. Flashing the invite, she pointed back to Quentin and Eliot. “Those losers are with me.” The man nodded, pulling the door open for her, and Quentin was surprised by the sudden music that cut off just as completely when the door closed behind her.

Warm hands enveloped his, and he looked up to see Eliot standing in front of him, his lower lip pushed out in a pout. “You’re not really going to leave, are you?” he asked with dramatised sadness, swaying his body closer so that the two of them were pressed together from the waist down, his hands moving to settle on his hips.

Quentin pressed his lips together. It was almost depressing how quickly he turned to putty when Eliot put on the sad puppy eyes. Or when he smiled so brilliantly that his whole face lit up. Or when he just looked at him. Or when he just existed, really. Smiling despite himself, he sighed. “No,” he said, exaggerating his reluctance in order to play along.

“Good,” Eliot said warmly. One arm slipped around his waist while the other moved to the side of his neck, and Quentin was already lifting his chin when Eliot leaned down to kiss him. Quentin breathed in deeply as their lips pressed together, taking in the smell of his familiar cologne. He pressed his tongue against Eliot’s lower lip to part them, deepening the kiss and thrilling in the way Eliot’s fingers flexed against his neck, moving to the back to hold them close together. Quentin’s hands settled on Eliot’s sides, brushing his thumbs back and forth against the material of his vest, wishing that there were a few less layers between their skin.

When Eliot pulled back, he was pleased that he wasn’t the only one a little breathless. Eliot rested his forehead against his, grinning down at him weakly. “That wasn’t a ploy to make me to ditch the party and go home with you, was it?”

“Just a suggestion that we not stay longer than we have to,” Quentin admitted, not caring one bit that he’d been caught out.

Eliot huffed a laugh and then pulled away reluctantly, grabbing his hand instead. “And Margo thinks I haven’t corrupted you,” he scoffed.

The doorman nodded to them solemnly as they approached and, without a word, pulled the door open for them. The same music reached his ears the moment the door opened, and Quentin craned his neck to see over Eliot’s shoulder as he followed him over the threshold.

He stepped into a large room that looked more like a fancy hotel lobby than a pub. A few people stood around in groups or sat on small couches arranged throughout the space, and there was a coat check off to the side. Margo was heading towards them from that direction sans coat and purse, waving a ticket in her hand. “Hold onto this for me?” she asked Eliot sweetly, lifting up to kiss his cheek while she tucked the ticket into his pocket.

Looking over his shoulder, Quentin wasn’t surprised to see a smooth glass door behind him instead of the weathered wooden one they’d stepped through. “Where are we?”

Eliot shrugged. “The actual location changes each time. All that’s important is that we are somewhere with free drinks, free food, and lots of interesting, rich magicians who don’t mind granting an odd favour here or there if you’ll socialise with them a little.”

Still… “It’s not one of those stuffy functions where everyone just wants to not so subtly brag about how rich they are, is it?” he asked, screwing his nose up. That was not his idea of a fun night.

“Oh, Q,” Margo said, shaking her head at him. Slipping one arm through his again and the other through Eliot’s as though they were both her escorts (and to be honest, she probably considered them as such anyway), she led the way through the large double doors that opened into the next room.

At first glance, it sure looked like one of those snobbish galas or fundraisers or whatever that rich people did in movies. Everyone was well dressed, standing in groups around the room, and waiters carrying trays of drinks and finger food weaved between them. A few high tables had been scattered throughout one end of the room, and the other had been left clear, probably for dancing, he supposed. A long bar stretched out along one side of the room.

He quickly realised, though, that the vibe wasn’t the haughty stuffiness that he’d feared it would be. The hubbub of chatter could be heard through the upbeat music, and laughter was present in every moment. He found himself smiling as he took in the people. Their obvious enjoyment was contagious, and he realised that he had relaxed.

“This isn’t some boring mixer for snobby white rich men,” Margo told him. “These are magicians basking in the fact that magic is back and uninhibited. All these people want to do is get trashed on magical alcohol and show off some magic tricks.” She leaned into him imploringly. “Don’t pretend that’s not a wet dream come true for you.”

Turning his eyes away from the room to look at his two companions, Quentin noted both Margo’s pleased smile and Eliot’s hopeful look. They both wanted him to enjoy this, he realised, and he’d been a stick in the mud the whole night so far. He always felt awkward around new people, and had worried that he’d have to put on some kind of show as one of the kings of Fillory. Eliot and Margo did the royalty thing so seamlessly, but he wasn’t competing with them, he realised. They were here to support him.

When had it ever been otherwise?

“I guess let’s get our royalty on, then,” he said with a half shrug, and the bright smile that lit up Eliot’s face dismissed any of his lingering discomfort.

A waiter passed by then and Eliot untangled himself from Margo’s grip to wave him over. Passing Margo a glass of champagne, he took two more and handed one to Quentin, keeping one for himself. “To running amok,” he said as the waiter moved on, raising his glass and looking between the two of them solemnly. After a pause he sighed. “And making contacts that could help us with Fillory or our futures or whatever,” he added obligatory, and Quentin shook his head with a grin, taking a sip from his glass.

Pulling the glass away, he looked down at the liquid curiously. It looked like champagne and tasted like champagne, but the tingling feeling on his tongue wasn’t the usual feeling of carbonation. Sparks followed the liquid down his throat and spread through him, flowing outwards until he felt it all throughout his body. “Um… okay,” he said, rolling his shoulders as the sensation loosened all of the knots in his shoulders.

“Enjoying the drinks already, I see.”

Quentin raised his eyes from his glass to see a man approaching them. He looked to be a similar age to them, maybe a few years older, and was dressed in a navy suit. He glanced across at Eliot and Margo, wondering how to handle such a casual greeting from someone he didn’t know, but one look at the way their eyes had lit up told him that they did, in fact, know him. “Thomas!” Eliot exclaimed, moving forward to give him a one-armed hug. “It’s been –“

“About two years,” Thomas finished, clapping him on the back before stepping back, one hand settling on Eliot’s shoulder as he took him in. “You’re looking good, man! You must be, what, a third year now, right?”

Eliot laughed. “Margo and I have taken a, shall we say, leave of absence for the last year or so.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit, you mean the rumours are true? You’re a king?”

Eliot lifted his chin regally, and Quentin wondered how anyone could see him as anything other than a king. “May I reintroduce you to High King Margo of Fillory?” he said formally, bending his knee and sweeping his arm in Margo’s direction. Margo dipped her head cordially, but it was obvious that she was enjoying this. Eliot turned to him, his eyes warm. “And this is King Quentin,” he said, moving around Margo to Quentin’s other side and resting his hand on his shoulder. “Q, this is Thomas. He was a third year when Margo and I were first years.”

Quentin shifted his drink to his left hand so he could shake Thomas’s. “How many kings does Fillory have?” he asked.

Margo laughed lightly. “We’re all full up of kings, sweetheart,” she said, “but catch me later and maybe I could throw out a knighthood or two.”

Looking between Margo and Eliot, Thomas grinned. “You two haven’t changed one bit, have you?”

Eliot and Margo exchanged a look, and Quentin pressed his lips together to keep from butting in, thinking back to the Eliot and Margo he’d met on his first day compared to the two people standing beside him now. “Not so as you’d notice,” Margo said, reaching up to pat Thomas gently on the cheek.

Thomas grinned down at Margo, missing her point completely by the look of it, and was distracted a moment later by something over her shoulder. “Hey, I just saw someone I’ve got to catch up with, but I’ll find you guys later, all right?”

Thomas disappeared, but was quickly replaced by a guy that, Eliot explained, he’d used to party with back in the day. “This is my partner in crime, Margo,” he said, flinging one arm around Margo’s shoulders and the other around Quentin’s. “And this is Quentin.”

Mid conversation, Margo let out a squeal that was entirely out of character, darting off for a moment before pulling a woman over to meet them. “El, do you remember Isabelle?”

From Eliot’s expression, Margo remembered Isabelle a lot more clearly than he did. “Sure,” he said noncommittally, drawing out the word. “Hi, Isabelle. This is Quentin.”

“Hi, Quentin,” she said, and when she barely took her eyes off Margo to greet him he and Eliot exchanged a knowing look.

Taking a fresh glass from the passing waiter, Quentin turned to Eliot, letting Margo reacquaint herself with Isabelle. “Is there anyone here that you two don’t know?” he asked, hoping it didn’t show that he felt a little put out by apparently being the only person here who didn’t have at least a dozen contacts. He was starting to wonder why he’d been invited in the first place.

“Plenty of people,” Eliot assured him, his arm coming around him to rest his hand on his shoulder. “It’s just that, in our first year, we weren’t really being harassed by six-fingered villains and the such, so we got to enjoy a lot more parties than you did.” His grip tightened, pulling him close and pressing his lips to the side of his neck, just below his ear. “Just imagine any of these guys in Fillory, and think of how out of place they’d be there.”

Somehow, it didn’t make him feel better to think of the confident, sociable people trying their luck with the folk of Fillory. He’d won the obedience, at least, of the people of Whitespire purely from the crown that Eliot had given him, but he could imagine most of the people he’d met so far tonight talking themselves into twice as much respect after five minutes of conversation.

But this wasn’t a ‘him versus them’ kind of night, he reminded himself, leaning back into Eliot. Taking comfort in Eliot’s ready embrace, his easy, casual kiss to the side of his head, he reminded himself that this was the kind of night he could enjoy, if he just got out of his head and let himself. Stroking his fingers over Eliot’s arm, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, giving himself just one moment of familiarity before he made himself start to make an effort.

“Eliot?”

Feeling Eliot stiffen slightly, he opened his eyes and looked toward the person who had spoken. For a moment he thought he was seeing double but no, two men were smiling identical smiles at Eliot, who loosened his grip on Quentin and then dropped his arms entirely. “Matt? And Tyler. It’s been…”

“Around about that, yeah,” one of the men said, looking Eliot up and down thoughtfully.

Quentin disliked him immediately.

With impeccable timing, Margo appeared on his other side, three shot glasses cradled in her hands. Reaching across him to take one of the shots, Eliot gestured with it to the twins. “Q, Margo, this is Matt and Tyler. Who I met in Ibiza,” Eliot added, eyeing them curiously, “but honestly I have no idea where you’re from.”

“Ooh.” Margo looked between the two men with wide, speculative eyes. “These are the _twins_?”

 _Obviously_ , Quentin thought, except that the way she said that made it sound like there were a set of twins that were particularly noteworthy and these two were those two, and the excitement in her voice combined with the way one of the men was eyeing Eliot just made him uncomfortable.

“In case you couldn’t tell,” Eliot said. “Boys, this is my friend Margo, and Quentin.” His free hand settled on Quentin’s shoulder, fingers squeezing gently and he wondered if it was in reassurance.

Did he need reassuring?

Margo was still watching them like she knew some secret. “The stories I heard about you two almost made me regret getting separated from Eliot for those few days.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow at her. “Didn’t you shack up with a pixie for the weekend?”

She smiled smugly. “I did say _almost._ ”

Tyler turned to Quentin, who was trying not to think about just what the three of them might have been doing while Margo was fucking a pixie, and trying not to notice that both of them were tall and attractive and had nice hair and white smiles and were dressed impeccably and –

“Are you from Brakebills, too?”

It took a moment for Quentin to realise that he was being spoken to, and he blinked dumbly for another moment as he tried to remember the question. “Um, yes,” he said eventually, ignoring Eliot’s quizzical look.

When the twins’ attention went back to Eliot, Quentin took the shot glass out of Margo’s hand and tossed it back, not really caring what it was.

The sticky sweetness of marshmallows filled his mouth, and it frustrated him even more that he was too distracted to enjoy it.

Margo took the empty glass from him and stacked it with her own, holding them out blindly behind her. He forced a smile for the waiter who took them, then looked back to Margo, feeling unnerved to find her smiling at him with amusement. “Don’t be jealous,” she teased, elbowing him playfully.

“I’m not jealous,” he protested under his breath, well aware that he probably looked and sounded jealous.

But he wasn’t. He was well aware that Eliot had seen his fair share of guys in some form or another over the years, and he didn’t want to just pretend that it had never happened. It wasn’t even that he felt awkward comparing himself to other people that Eliot had been with – well, he _did,_ but that wasn’t what was bothering him right now.

It had just occurred to him that Eliot hadn’t introduced him to anyone as his boyfriend. Tonight, or ever.

But it didn’t mean anything, right? It’s not like they’d had a talk and put a label on it. It’s not like he’d felt the need to press the issue before now. Hell, he hadn’t even thought about it until now.

Standing here in front of hot twins that Eliot had most definitely fucked in Ibiza, one of whom was definitely looking at Eliot like he’d struck gold with a second chance, he really wished that he’d been introduced as Eliot’s boyfriend.

He wasn’t sure whether Eliot had heard his exchange with Margo, but his arm slipped further around his shoulders, and then his hand trailed down his arm to settle on his waist. Without pausing in his conversation with Matt and Tyler, he started stroking his thumb up and down his side. After a long moment Quentin let himself be soothed by the touch and leaned into him. Wrapping his own arm around Eliot’s waist, he hooked his thumb through his belt.

He was being ridiculous. He’d just let their actions speak for themselves. They were together. That was enough.

Eliot was nothing if not a good host. Noticing Quentin’s dark moment and probably misjudging it, he made sure to steer the conversation to things that he could contribute to. When the conversation turned to their adventures over the last few years, he could tell that Eliot was talking him up but instead of feeling nervous at the attention, he was quietly pleased.

Margo wandered off after a little while, sighting a Brakebills alumna that she wanted to speak to. Someone that Matt seemed to know joined them and the talk turned to more general topics.

The next hour passed quickly, and Quentin soon lost track of all of the people he was introduced to. People ducked in and out of conversations so randomly that he gave up trying. He found himself talking to an old Brakebills teacher. He looked to be in his sixties, but he was starting to suspect that he was actually much older when he talked about how his teaching had changed since the turn of the century, and hadn’t meant this last century. He’d lamented how much he missed teaching, and had somehow ended up leading an instruction on how to pull champagne out of the glass in bubbles.

Holding his drink in his left hand, Quentin held his right above the glass and held his breath as his fingers went through the motions as the old professor had shown him. Bringing his fingers together and slowly lifting his hand, he grinned as a small amount of the champagne formed a ball about an inch wide and floated up above the glass.

“Well done!” the professor cheered, as Quentin guided the bubble into his mouth. It dissolved once it touched his tongue, turning into a regular mouthful of the drink, but the pleasure at learning a new simple spell warmed him as much as the alcohol did.

Others around him were trying with varying success and he watched them for a moment before looking over his shoulder at Eliot. He was telling a separate group of people stories about his time ruling Fillory, and Quentin half-listened to the conversation for a moment, enjoying the sound of Eliot’s animated voice. He was a little surprised that he’d found himself happily talking to people who weren’t Eliot or Margo, but it was nice to know that Eliot stood at his back like a pillar of support and encouragement.

The woman next to him turned to look at the group of people behind them, and then smiled at him wistfully when she saw that he’d noticed. “Jeez, can you imagine going to Fillory?” she said, nodding her head in Eliot’s direction. “I’m Liza.”

Smiling at Eliot as he started talking about his foray into wine making, he turned back to the woman. “Quentin. It’s about as wonderful as you can imagine,” he told her, then paused. He didn’t want to ruin anyone’s picture perfect opinion of Fillory, but he didn’t want to lie either. “And also pretty fucking terrible sometimes,” he added.

Her eyes widened almost comically. “You’re from Fillory?”

Quentin laughed. “Well, no, I’m from Brooklyn. But, I am a king of Fillory.” Even after all this time, it still felt damned good to say.

“Oh, so you’re friends with Eliot?”

 _And_ just like that, his mood plummeted. “Um. Yeah. Something like that.” He glanced around at the people still attempting the spell, floating balls of champagne all over the place, and people listening to Eliot’s story, and just didn’t want to anymore. “Excuse me,” he said to the woman, then half-turned to Eliot. “I’m going to the bar,” he said quietly and walked away, not waiting for an answer and not really caring if he’d heard him or not. Well, he did care, but he didn’t _care._ He just… he was over it.

Finding a free stool near the end of the bar, he ordered a shot of whiskey and one on the rocks. Tossing back the shot, he considered the other glass for a second before he downed the drink in one go as well.

The bartender, a short woman with white hair and pointed ears, left him the bottle, and he managed a smile of thanks. Or maybe it was a grimace.

Pouring his glass halfway full, he took a long mouthful and then looked through the crowd. It took him a moment to spot Margo, but once he did she was unmistakable – she was on the dance floor, moving in time with the music and dancing with at least four other people. Looking back to Eliot, he watched him as he continued to talk, then cut himself off to run over to a broad-shouldered woman who immediately wrapped her arms around him, making him look tiny in comparison. A few minutes later someone else grabbed his arm, laughing as they greeted each other. Quentin rested his elbow on the bar and slumped a little, glumly watching Eliot know every other person he ran into and making friends with the rest.

The problem wasn’t that he didn’t know anyone. He honestly couldn’t give a shit about whether people recognised him or not. He knew that Eliot and Margo were always the centre of attention of any party they walk into.

But the idea of being recognised or introduced as Eliot’s _friend_ all night just rubbed him the wrong way.

He was nursing his darkening mood and his third whiskey when someone slid onto the stool behind him. Quentin didn’t look up from his glass, slowly running the tip of his finger around the rim and watching as the half-dissolved ice cubes swirled around in the amber liquid, following his finger. The silence stretched between them until Eliot twisted in his stool, casually knocking his knee against Quentin’s thigh. “Can I have some?”

Wordlessly, he passed the bottle over. The bartender put another glass in front of him and then disappeared down the other end of the bar to serve someone else. Quentin appreciated the semblance of privacy and determined to tip her generously.

He watched peripherally as Eliot poured and then took a sip. After a moment he set the glass down. “Come on, Q, talk to me,” he said exasperatedly.

The alcohol had made him brave, too brave to curb the first sarcastic thought that came to his mind. “Why? You’ve got plenty of other people here to talk to.”

Eliot was silent for a moment, and Quentin immediately regretted the words. Well, not the words themselves – he didn’t want to just pretend that nothing was bothering him – but maybe the bitterness of his tone. Oh well, he couldn’t take it back now.

“Are you annoyed about meeting my ex hook-ups?” Eliot asked quietly. He sounded almost impassive, but Quentin didn’t miss the strain in his voice. “You can’t be surprised that they exist. You know who I am.”

Pushing his whiskey aside, Quentin finally turned in his seat to face Eliot, resting his elbow on the bar. “That’s not – that’s not why I’m annoyed. I…” Running his fingers through his hair, he hid his face in his hand for a moment before dropping it back to the bar, gripping at the edge for support. “Well, maybe a little,” he admitted. “But not really.” He straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t going to run from the conflict to just make things easier. He was going to say what he felt. “Why won’t you call me your boyfriend?”

He thought that Eliot was going to protest, to tell him he was wrong, that he was imagining things, that of course he was his boyfriend. Eliot’s brow furrowed slightly. “Well, you’re not,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Quentin felt it like a knife in the gut. He let his breath out slowly, trying to appear more in control of himself that he actually was. He felt like he was about to fall apart. “Well… fine, then.” He wasn’t going to stick around so Eliot could watch him crumble. Pushing himself off of the stool, he only managed to take one step in the general direction of the exit before Eliot grabbed his arm.

“No, no wait.” When Quentin stiffened under his touch he let go, but stepped in front of him to keep him from walking away. Eliot’s hands darted out, pulled back, then reached out again, hovering above his shoulders for a moment before settling on them firmly. “Q, listen to me.” Quentin looked up to meet his eyes reluctantly, and Eliot’s lip twitched in an appreciative half-smile before he turned serious again. “Listen. I have a wife. I technically probably still have a fiancé. Labels tend not to mean for me what they usually mean for other people.”

Sighing, Quentin dropped his gaze. He understood that, logically, but that didn’t make him feel any different. If they were something, then they had to be _something._

Eliot squeezed his shoulders, and he reluctantly raised his eyes again. Tilting his head, Eliot smiled at him almost sadly. “Not only that,” he said, “but we, the two of us, we lived our whole lives together, remember?” One of his hands ventured to rest on his neck, his thumb brushing the bare skin above his collar. His voice, when he continued, was thick with feeling. “You’re my other half, my partner, my soulmate. I love you.” He paused, and then his smile turned into a playful grimace. “You’re so much more than just my _boyfriend.”_

“I…” He swallowed, but still couldn’t manage words around the lump in his throat. Wordlessly, he reached out for Eliot, wrapping his arms around his waist as his arms came around his shoulders. Burying his face against his neck, Quentin clung to him tightly. His relief and wonder was palpable. He also felt very stupid. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush.” One of his hands settled on the back of his head, holding him against his neck. “You’re entitled to feel your feelings.” Lips pressed against the top of his head. “Just know that in this case, they’re misguided and wrong.”

Quentin couldn’t help it, he laughed, and when he pulled back Eliot was smiling down at him. “I love you,” Quentin said. His fingers twisted in the bottom hem of Eliot’s vest. “And… it doesn’t matter what you call me. I don’t care.”

“You do, and that’s okay. Just… talk to me about it next time, okay?”

Nodding, Quentin wrapped his hand around the back of Eliot’s neck and pulled him down to meet him, pressing his lips against his and letting himself feel the tenderness of his touch, letting it heal the last of his dark thoughts. Eliot made a soft sound in the back of his throat and parted his lips against his, kissing him slowly, pulling him close.

When they parted, Eliot traced the curve of his face with gentle fingers, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Want to get out of here?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Quentin didn’t want to ruin his night, but he also wanted nothing more. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely.” Wrapping his arm around his shoulders, he steered them toward the door. Cupping his hand near his mouth, he whispered something into it and then flung the words out across the room. “Margo will find us outside. Come on.”

Their exit took a few minutes, with people here and there smiling and saying and waving goodbye. Knowing they were on their way home, Quentin managed a few genuine smiles of his own, though he was certain that he’d only met a quarter of the people who wanted a final word of goodbye. Eliot was polite but firm with every attempt to stall them. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Quentin eventually murmured quietly.

“I want to,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

They’d almost made it to the door when one of the twins stopped in front of them. “You’re not leaving already, are you?” He pulled an exaggeratedly disappointed face.

“I know, I know, the party won’t be the same,” Eliot lamented. Squeezing Quentin gently, he rubbed his hand up and down his upper arm. “But alas, my boyfriend and I are heading home.”

Quentin stilled, looking up at Eliot in surprise. Eliot winked at him, then turned back to the man before them. “We’ll see you around, Matt.”

Matt’s smile was genuine, and Quentin found himself suddenly disliking him a little less. “See you, Eliot. Quentin.”

“Bye.” Quentin glanced back over his shoulder as they entered the foyer, then back up at Eliot. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“But I did,” Eliot said simply, then looked at him sideways again, his eyes warm. “So shh.”

Kissing him quickly on the cheek, he dropped his arm and strode off to the coat check, pulling Margo’s ticket out of his pocket and twirling it between his fingers. Quentin watched him as he walked off, feeling a strange blend of appreciation and love mixed with regret and irritation at himself. He didn’t want Eliot changing his behaviour or saying or doing anything that he didn’t want to do. He didn’t seem annoyed about it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. Was having his say really worth creating an issue between the two of them? It wasn’t that big a deal – maybe he should have just kept it to himself. Maybe he should apologise for making a scene.

A few minutes later Eliot was heading back towards him, Margo’s purse in one hand and her coat over the same arm, and Quentin had worked himself deeper and deeper into an anxious spiral. Eliot tilted his head toward the door as he neared him and Quentin pushed off the back of the couch that he’d been leaning against to walk beside him. “I know it’s not a big deal for you,” he started, needing to say something to quiet the roaring indecision inside of him.

Eliot’s sigh was full of exasperation as he grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop again in the foyer, but when Quentin reluctantly met his eyes the frustration he’d expected was overshadowed by tenderness. “It matters to you, so it matters to me.” Eliot tucked his hair behind his ear again, the back of his fingers trailing against his skin until his hand settled on his neck. “Quentin,” he said, looking at him earnestly. “Thank you for giving a shit.”

Feeling his tension finally start to ease, Quentin smiled up at him uncertainly. Was it really that easy? They talked their issues out and then it was good again? “I really fucking love you,” he said, and didn’t feel one bit of nervousness about being so open.

Grinning down at him, Eliot’s fingers twitched on his neck and he was fairly sure he was about to bend down to kiss him when he became aware of someone approaching them. “Hey, losers.” Feeling a twinge of regret that their moment was being interrupted, Quentin was about to turn towards Margo when Eliot’s hand shifted to the back of his head, holding him still as he ducked his head and pressed his lips against his. Quentin stilled, then relaxed into the touch, Eliot’s lips moving against his slowly but firmly.

The kiss was over far quicker than he’d have liked, but he still smiled when he turned to Margo. “You guys are keen to leave, aren’t you?” she asked, nodding to the coat still hanging over Eliot’s arm.

Eliot held it up for her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Worried that he was ruining her night, Quentin opened his mouth to insist that it was fine, they could stay, but then Eliot’s hand closed around his and tugged him gently towards the door. “We’re both just all mingled out,” he explained as they stepped out into the night.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Quentin looked over his shoulder and saw just the same quiet, boring pub that they’d walked into. Pulling her hair out from underneath her coat, Margo linked her arm through Eliot’s. “Well, I hope you’re not hanging to get home straight away,” she said, smirking up at Eliot through her lashes in a way that clearly referenced the kiss that she’d walked in on. “I want to show Q that waffle place a few blocks from here before it closes.”

Eliot’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, the one that does the banana caramel extravaganza that nearly killed me last time?”

“That’s the one,” she said, leaning her head forward to look past Eliot to Quentin. “That all right with you, Coldwater?”

Letting go of Eliot’s hand to hook his arm through his like Margo was, he nodded at her appreciatively. That she wanted to take him there, that she wanted to include him in the decision meant more to him that she’d know. “That sounds amazing,” he said, and meant it. Right then, he could think of nothing better than sitting in a quiet dessert parlour and eating waffles with his friend and his boyfriend/partner/lover. What had Eliot said?

Soulmate.

They’d figure out a term that really applied to them later, but right now the feeling behind those words was enough.


End file.
